


Dearest, Treasure

by lecturience



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: (no really), (probably), AU: Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Consumation Of FEELINGS!, Dirty Talk, Intercrural Sex, Love, Love Bites, M/M, One Shot, Pet Names, Post BotFA, Sassy Bilbo, Smitten Thorin, Smooth Thorin, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecturience/pseuds/lecturience
Summary: Bilbo stared. Thorin was nothing like a hobbit, butoh, he waslovely. Broad and muscled – and why had Bilbo ever found soft, round hobbits attractive? For that matter, why had he ever thought hair belonged only on heads and feet – clearly, the thick, dark pelt on Thorin’s chest was the eroticideal.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 62
Kudos: 727





	Dearest, Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been wanting to post a Hobbit fic for _years_ , but they keep trying to be plotty, and I just _can’t_. I can’t plot. I need to keep it short and sweet – or steamy, as the case may be. Hence this story making it to the posting stage.
> 
> Set in a verse where everyone survived the BotFA (everyone we care about, anyway), and Thorin – recovered from gold madness and having realised what he almost lost – pulled his head out of his arse and confessed his undying love to Bilbo (is that not canon? lalala) whose response was to return the sentiment, and then drag Thorin – and their bedrolls! – to the nearest private location.
> 
> Yeah, it’s… basically just smut.

Bilbo had to stand on tiptoe, and pull Thorin down by the hands fisted in his furs, just to be able to reach his mouth. But it was worth the indignity, because he was finally – _finally_ – kissing the stubborn, rude, thick-headed, brave, _stupidly attractive_ dwarf he’d fallen in love with!

Better still, Thorin was kissing back just as desperately, bending down, his hands cupping Bilbo’s face with startling tenderness. He tilted Bilbo’s head back a little farther, a little to one side, and pressed their lips together more firmly so that Bilbo’s parted under his.

When Bilbo only darted teasing licks to Thorin’s lips as he kissed them, one and then the other, Thorin’s tongue grew bolder, dipping into Bilbo’s mouth. Moaning in approval, Bilbo managed to release one of his hands from its tight grip. He slid it between them and cupped Thorin through his trousers. Thorin groaned, tearing away from the kiss, and pressed their foreheads together with eyes closed.

“This is fine?” Bilbo thought to double-check.

Thorin chuckled. “Very much so,” he said, voice thick, and rocked into Bilbo’s palm – which he filled _quite_ well. His eyes opened, pinning Bilbo in place. “Where is this going, treasure? How far shall we take things tonight?”

A spark of mischief lit inside Bilbo – his Tookish half, he expected – and he tilted his chin up, close enough that their lips would brush as he spoke. “How far would you like, dearest?” he asked, eyes glimmering with tease behind half-lowered lashes.

Thorin sucked in a sharp breath. He didn’t flirt back – which might have been fun – but Bilbo didn’t mind, since he instead descended upon Bilbo’s lips again. As he did so, one of the hands carefully cradling Bilbo’s head slid down his back, took a firm handful of rump, and squeezed. It was Bilbo’s turn to groan. He pressed as close as he could, erection straining his trousers insistently – much as he could feel Thorin’s straining his own under Bilbo’s palm.

“I _want_ ,” Thorin said, voice so deep that, pressed close like this, it rumbled through Bilbo as well – and oh, that was _very_ nice, “to be _inside_ you, if you are amenable.”

Bilbo shuddered at the thought, clenching in anticipation. He was _very_ amenable. Yes, indeed. Only… His hand squeezed, and Thorin groaned again, _both_ hands on Bilbo’s rump now, kneading and tugging him closer. It quite distracted Bilbo from his purpose for a moment.

“I—” Bilbo cleared his throat as his voice came out breathless. “I _would_ like that – rather a lot, actually – only…”

Thorin paused. “Only?” he asked carefully.

“Only, you are very…” Bilbo traced the line of Thorin’s erection, where it curved against his trousers, and swallowed hard. “You’re very, er, _generously proportioned_ , aren’t you?”

An eyebrow quirked. Thorin’s voice was amused and a little flattered as he disagreed. “I am rather solidly average in size.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said. Then, more quietly, “ _Oh_.” He pulled his hand back and glanced away, suddenly self-conscious and unsure.

“Treasure?” A sharp nose nudged Bilbo’s jaw, urging him to meet Thorin’s gaze. When he did, Thorin’s brows were faintly furrowed, but his eyes were only concerned.

Bracing himself, Bilbo admitted, “Hobbits, it seems, are differently proportioned than dwarrow. More, er, modestly sized. I’m afraid you might find me” – he winced – “disappointing.”

Thorin looked confused. Then realisation dawned. “Oh!” He scoffed. “Hardly.”

“But I’m not—” Bilbo began, only to be distracted by a _very_ thorough kiss. It left him dazed, and he forgot, for a moment, the thread of conversation. “I… Um… I’m… What was I saying?”

Thorin’s chuckle was smug, but when he spoke, his tone was soft – in his gruff way – and earnest. “Dwarrow are not like most races, I think. While we have a keen eye for aesthetics – you know we pride ourselves on our crafting, and we… covet gold and other beautiful things.” The last part – a reminder of recent unpleasantness – was said in a rush, with a grimace. When Bilbo only watched him patiently, Thorin relaxed and continued. “But it is not a _sexual_ appreciation. You could place the most beautiful person before us, perfectly formed to our aesthetic preferences, and a dwarf would feel not a flicker of attraction.”

“None?” Bilbo said, a little baffled. He didn’t consider himself shallow, but he could admit he’d had his head turned a time or two by a pretty face or a pert bottom – particularly back when he’d been a lust-addled tween.

“None. Sexual desire, for dwarrow, is born of emotional desire.” He raised one hand to cup Bilbo’s cheek, oddly gentle for one more prone to rough gestures. “For us,” he said, eyes blazing, “ _love_ comes first. And from romantic love, sexual attraction follows.”

Bilbo swallowed. “Oh,” he said, feeling trembly in the face of that intensity.

“Oh,” Thorin agreed, lips quirking into a rare, boyish smile that made it obvious he was related to Fili and Kili. He brushed their cheeks together – the bristling of his beard an unfamiliar but not unpleasant sensation on Bilbo’s skin – and all but _purred_ in Bilbo’s ear, “There is not a single part of you that I don’t _desire_ , from the top of your curly head, to the tips of your curly toes. I have even,” he said, with a puff of amusement, “come to find your _pointy ears_ the most _charming_ things.”

Bilbo laughed too, at that. Because he well knew most dwarrow’s feelings – and Thorin’s in particular – regarding ‘ _pointy-eared_ elves’.

He opened his mouth to tease that Thorin could hardly judge Kili’s preferences _now_ , but just as he began, Thorin decided to prove his peculiar preference by taking a lobe in his mouth. Bilbo’s words emerged as a wordless garble. Hobbit ears weren’t more sensitive than any other race’s – contrary to what he’d heard some of the humans in Bree salaciously speculate – but the way Thorin suckled, wet and warm, and then bit ever so gently, before nibbling up to the tip, was…

Bilbo felt a little shaky. “ _Thorin_.”

The dwarf hummed and finally withdrew. Hand cupping Bilbo’s cheek, threading through his hair, Thorin angled his head as he returned to kissing Bilbo’s mouth instead. It was no less a distraction, but since Bilbo _expected_ such kisses to be pleasant, it was at least not startling. Bilbo felt a touch more in control – until, that is, Thorin spoke again.

“I love the way your curls catch and twine around my fingers,” he mused, drawing back slightly to look at Bilbo, whose flush deepened as the praise continued. “I love the way it looks like burnished bronze in sunlight. And your eyes – you have the loveliest eyes – green as emeralds, with flecks of amber.” He placed a kiss under one, then his lips brushed back and forth across Bilbo’s cheek. “Your skin is so _smooth_ ,” he murmured deeply, with a fascination and _captivation_ that made Bilbo’s heart race. “So soft. You are soft all over, in fact – your body—”

Bilbo, who had been melting with every word, found the wherewithal to give a huff. “Now, you cannot tell me _that_ is your preference. I know dwarrow are built” – he paused, hands smoothing over the breadth of Thorin’s shoulders – “much more solidly.”

Thorin hummed, eyeing Bilbo in a way that made him nervous – an almost calculating focus, reminiscent of how he looked in battle, but with none of the violence, and the absolute _opposite_ of dislike. “But my body pleases you? Even so solidly built?”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo breathed, voice _very_ appreciative.

“Are you sure?” Thorin’s brow furrowed. “I know hobbits are more partial to a healthy fullness of figure – a sign of a good appetite and a full table, I believe you once put it?”

“No— well, yes, but—” Bilbo shook his head. “I don’t care what the rest of my kind prefers – _I_ prefer _you_!” And then his mouth snapped closed as Thorin smirked victoriously, and realisation struck him. “ _Oh_ ,” Bilbo said, cheeks heating in embarrassment. He huffed. “That was _underhanded_ , Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin threw his head back and laughed. Bilbo’s breath caught at the sight. For Thorin, who had suffered so much and been weighed down by duties at too young an age, unbridled mirth was a rarity – and all the more precious for it.

Thorin grinned when he looked back down. “But it got my point across, yes?”

“I suppose.” Bilbo feigned begrudgingness. He lifted his nose and said airily, “Go on, then – you were listing my many and numerous attractive qualities, were you not?”

“Of course, treasure.” Thorin’s solemnity was equally feigned. “Let me return to that. Where was I?”

“The softness of my body, I believe,” said Bilbo dryly. Just because he had accepted that Thorin desired him, despite not conforming to dwarven ideals – as Bilbo desired Thorin, despite him being not the least bit hobbity – that didn’t change the fact that Bilbo couldn’t see _how_ Thorin, a warrior as much as a leader, could make ‘soft bodied’ sound flattering.

Thorin was quick to prove him wrong.

“Ah yes, your softness.” Blue eyes darkening, Thorin licked his lips. “I have dreamed, you know,” he confessed in a rumble, “of the way my fingers might press into your skin as I held you.” And he squeezed the buttock Bilbo had somehow – incomprehensibly – forgotten Thorin still had one hand upon, making Bilbo squeak embarrassingly. Thorin only chuckled. “There,” he said, “and elsewhere. Would my fingers leave bruises on your hips?” he wondered, and Bilbo’s breath caught. “I would like to leave bruises on you, I think. Not of pain – never of pain – but… if not my fingers, then with my mouth. Would you like that? Would you let me suck bruises into your skin, your neck? Hmm?”

“Yes,” Bilbo breathed.

“What about,” Thorin added darkly, “the insides of your thighs? You would be particularly soft there, I have imagined. Could I press your thighs apart and kiss bruises into them?”

Bilbo trembled. “ _Yes_ ,” he rasped, then used his grip on Thorin’s shoulders, and a hop from his toes, to leap and wrap his legs around Thorin’s waist and lunge into a desperate kiss.

Thorin returned the kiss with no less ardour, hands at Bilbo’s rump rocking them together, and Bilbo whimpered when Thorin drew away.

“Come back here at _once_ ,” Bilbo muttered, tugging firmly on his beard.

Chuckling, Thorin obeyed only briefly, then drew back to speak. “Returning to markings – and also to an earlier point in our conversation, and a question you left unanswered.” Voice going deep and rumbly again, he whispered in Bilbo’s ear, cheek brushing cheek, “I would very much like to kiss bruises to the nape of your neck, as my fingers leave marks on your hips.”

Bilbo shuddered – it was very clear what Thorin meant.

“But again,” Thorin said, “only if you are agreeable.” And then he darted his tongue out to flicker at the lobe of Bilbo’s ear.

Near overcome with lust – with _need_ – Bilbo almost agreed. Somehow though, a _tiny_ remaining portion of sensibility reminded him of the reason for his earlier hesitation – from before he got distracted by self-consciousness, and then Thorin had distracted him with praises and _very_ naughty words.

He looked at their surroundings. It was not a bedroom, merely a storage room that had been deemed structurally sound and roughly cleared out – ascertaining the safety of the rest of the mountain, to say nothing of cleanup, would be the work of long months – and there was not much comfort to be found, aside from their bedrolls piled together.

Bilbo sighed and bumped his nose against Thorin’s affectionately, even as he said, “I’m afraid we can’t. I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine, treasure,” Thorin said at once. “If the act is not to your taste—”

“Oh, no. It _is_. It _very much_ is.” Bilbo cleared his throat as he realised he’d been getting a bit, er, _fervent_. “But as we have discovered, hobbits are more… modestly-sized.” Cheeks pink, he admitted, “I don’t think I could take you without a great deal of careful preparation. We would need somewhere with a proper bed, where we could be comfortable. And we would need oils – not just any convenient slick, but something very effective and designed for the purpose. Also, time – a few hours of privacy at least. Since we need to be up early tomorrow, because there’s a great deal of work to be done, staying up late simply to indulge ourselves, while tempting – very, _very_ tempting – is probably not wise. We’d sleep in late, or if not, be rather useless with exhaustion. Hardly fair to the others, who will be working hard and—”

Bilbo cut himself off as another thought occurred. “This is assuming you still _want_ that. I expect that your imaginings contained quite a bit less tedious preparation.”

Thorin took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his words were a growl. “My imaginings, I always knew, would pale in comparison to the reality, were I fortunate enough to have you. And I promise you,” he added, hands clenching Bilbo’s rump, eyes _searing_ , “that spreading you out and taking _hours_ to touch and please you, to see every inch and hear the sounds you make, would be _anything but tedious_.”

Feeling faint, _aching_ where he stretched his trousers to the point of discomfort, Bilbo swallowed hard and licked his lips and tried – and failed – several times to say something coherent. He settled instead for pressing their foreheads together – an utterly dwarven gesture, but one he was becoming increasingly fond of – and then bumped his nose against Thorin’s – combining an equally hobbity gesture – and simply said, “I _love_ you so.”

“And I you,” Thorin said quietly. Then he nodded firmly. “A soft bed, quality oils, and _time_. They are at the top of my priority list.”

Bilbo laughed. “Dearest, I think there are more important matters – clearing the mountain for one, to say nothing of finalising treaties with the men and elves on our doorstep, and—”

“The _top_ ,” Thorin repeated firmly, “of my priority list.”

Bilbo stared, because that was Thorin’s stubborn look. It was not uncommon, and he had gotten to know it very well over the course of their adventure. Always before, it had caused Bilbo aggravation of one sort of another – there was a reason Bilbo had, in fact, secretly dubbed it the ‘stubborn _arse_ ’ look.

Of course, now that Thorin was being a stubborn arse about, well, _Bilbo’s_ arse – what an scandalous but amusing pun – suddenly Bilbo was a lot more endeared to the facial expression.

“Who am I to argue with a king?” he sighed.

Thorin snorted. “That has never stopped you before.”

Bilbo shrugged, unrepentant. “Someone has to deflate your head on the regular.”

Thorin sighed long-sufferingly. Bilbo objected – _he_ was the long-suffering one in this relationship.

“Still,” Bilbo said wistfully, “it’s a pity we’ll have to wait.”

Thorin’s hands suddenly squeezed Bilbo’s rump. “Wait?” He nudged under Bilbo’s jaw. “Whyever would we wait?” He kissed his throat. “There are still _many_ other things we can do.” A tongue darted out. “We have hands, do we not? And _mouths_.” And then he latched on – suckling a bruise there, Bilbo suspected, giving a breathy moan.

“Oh. Oh, _yes_. That— that sounds very, er, very agree- _ah_ -able.” And it did – it truly did – only… “I’m still a little disappointed we can’t—” His breath hitched at the hint of teeth. “You painted _such_ a tempting image – talking of bruising my nape and hips, and—”

“My treasure,” Thorin purred, “we can still do that, in the basics at least.” And then he was striding across the room, carrying Bilbo to their bedrolls, where he carefully lowered himself to his knees and laid Bilbo down. Reaching for the buttons of Bilbo’s straining trousers, he asked, “May I?”

Bilbo nodded, hastily unbuttoning his waistcoat at the same time. He managed to free himself of both it and his undershirt by the time Thorin – who had briefly paused to sweep an admiring look at Bilbo’s bared torso – managed to unbutton the trousers. Bilbo lifted his hips so they could be tugged off entirely, and then he had to shiver at the _look_ Thorin gave.

Ahem. Well. Hmm. So.

Thorin had been entirely correct – Bilbo had _nothing_ to feel inadequate about, not in Thorin’s eyes.

“I believe you gave me leave to leave bruises on your thighs?”

Bilbo swallowed hard and only nodded. Thorin flashed that grin again – it made him look _decades_ younger, his true age rather than the grimmer, more tired mien his hard life had given him – and then, with a sort of proprietary confidence that made Bilbo shiver, he pressed Bilbo’s thighs apart.

And then stared.

“R-really now,” Bilbo stammered a little. “Don’t just look – I was promised kisses!”

Thorin chuckled and easily obliged. He started at first by tracing fingers and whisper-soft kisses over skin that he declared, in a reverent murmur, to be “Just as soft as I dreamed”, but he soon moved on to keeping his promise to leave bruises – dozens of them. The intimate attention, so close and yet not touching where Bilbo most wanted Thorin’s touch, left him trembling. Fists clenched in the bedroll beneath them, his hips began to arch needily.

“My treasure, do I neglect you?”

“You do indeed,” Bilbo said, trying to sound stern, but only succeeding in shaky. “Very rude.”

“Well,” Thorin said, voice greedy, hands curling under and over Bilbo’s thighs and gripping firm, “allow me to make amends.”

“Please do s— _oh_ ,” Bilbo moaned as wet warmth encased his erection. His head tossed from side to side as further moans escaped him, until Thorin drew away. “I am not _done_!” Bilbo exclaimed, mildly outraged.

Thorin threw his head back and laughed – and even now, the sight of it caught Bilbo’s breath. He still felt cheated – Thorin had better not leave him like this! – but his ire could not help but soften.

“Don’t worry, I shan’t leave you unfulfilled,” Thorin promised, leaning up over him for a kiss. “Hmm. No, definitely not. But you mentioned being enamoured of a picture I painted with words…”

“Well, yes, but we haven’t the oil, or the bed, _or_ the time.”

“I think we can find a compromise. Especially as you have lovely soft thighs I could slide _between_ – instead of sliding _into_ you.”

Bilbo blushed wildly. “Oh. Well. Yes, that, ah, that does sound, er.” He cleared his throat – reminding himself that, Tookish adventuring or no, he was still the Baggins of Bag End and had more dignity than to babble inanely – and he said, more composedly, “Yes, let’s. Though first, you _must_ lose some layers – it’s hardly fair that I’m the only one naked.”

“Well, if it’s a matter of _fairness_ ,” Thorin teased – Bilbo had been right, it _was_ a great deal of fun when he flirted back – and, straightening back up to a kneeling position, he efficiently stripped himself bare. “There. All fair?”

Bilbo stared. Thorin was nothing like a hobbit, but _oh_ , he was _lovely_. Broad and muscled – and why had Bilbo ever found soft, round hobbits attractive? For that matter, why had he ever thought hair belonged only on heads and feet – clearly, the thick, dark pelt on Thorin’s chest was the erotic _ideal_.

“Fair,” Bilbo agreed dazedly. “Very fair. Fair and _fine_ – fine indeed – and _lovely_ and, and…”

“Fair?” Thorin asked, Bilbo’s ardent admiration turning his cheeks a touch pink – something Bilbo had never seen, and which drew him back to sensibility in order to be charmed by it.

“Very fair,” Bilbo said firmly. “And _all mine_.”

Thorin’s eyes went somehow soft and hot all at once. “And all yours,” he whispered in agreement, leaning over him again, ducking down to whisper against his lips, “As you are all mine?”

“ _Entirely_.”

Thorin groaned. “And would my own treasure turn over for me? And get on his hands and knees?”

Bilbo swallowed and flushed, but didn’t hesitate to do so. Thorin was quick to press close – not even a hair’s breadth of space between his chest and Bilbo’s back – and rocked his erection against the curve of Bilbo’s rump. Bilbo arched back into it, and then arched his neck too, when Thorin nipped at his earlobe. He barely noticed as Thorin’s hand reached into a pack by their bedrolls, not till Thorin pulled out a jar and paused to unscrew it.

Bilbo blinked in confusion. “What…?”

“One of Oin’s concoctions, intended for preventing boot sores – it should suffice for this.”

Thorin scooped out a generous portion, put the jar aside, and then he began to rub the cream between Bilbo’s thighs. It spread smoothly, with just enough oil to give a hint of glide. Once he was satisfied, Thorin pressed his hardness between Bilbo’s closed thighs with a breathless sound. Bilbo made a sound not dissimilar, when Thorin’s hand – still with traces of the ointment – wrapped around Bilbo’s erection.

“Oh. Oh, _Thorin_.”

“Good?” Thorin asked, voice a rumble as he began to thrust.

Bilbo pressed back. “Very— very good—” he gasped between strokes. “When you— you—” A particularly skilful twist of Thorin’s hand, palm swiping over the head, made Bilbo whimper. “Speak— when— when you speak, it— all deep and rumbly— ah— it echoes right through me.”

“Does it now? Well, if you want me to speak, treasure, I will speak,” Thorin promised, intentionally pitching his voice deeper. “I never did finish listing your attractive qualities, did I?”

“No?”

“No, certainly not. Especially now I’ve seen you unclothed, and touched you in new places. I must tell you,” he said, thrusts speeding up as his strokes did, “that I was entirely right – you are the perfect softness for my fingers to sink into. I must also mention your nipples.”

“N-nipples?” Bilbo managed to gasp.

“Blushed as palest pink quartz. Very pretty, my treasure. But not nearly as pretty as this.” And he squeezed, making Bilbo whimper and buck within his grasp. “Pretty pink there as well, flushed and hard for me. As for size, my treasure, you had nothing to worry about – you fit _perfectly_ in my hand,” Thorin said with relish, then sighed. “It’s almost a pity I must stop touching you this way.”

Bilbo made a sharp, desperate sound. “No, don’t— don’t stop!”

“But I must.” Thorin pressed a kiss to his nape. “Because I promised, did I not? To leave bruises here” – his teeth scraped, making Bilbo moan – “and upon your hips?”

“Oh,” Bilbo breathed. Because yes, he _had_ promised, and it still sounded very appealing – he would be able to see the marks there for _days_ , every time he dressed.

That didn’t stop Bilbo from making a frustrated sound when Thorin released him.

“Here,” Thorin murmured. He tugged at one of the hands Bilbo rested on, linking their fingers and pressing palms together – rubbing the remaining ointment onto Bilbo’s hand – and then directed Bilbo to grip himself instead, which he did eagerly. Thorin straightened – Bilbo briefly mourned the lack of closeness, which had allowed Thorin’s voice to rumble through him so delightfully – then he pressed fingers to Bilbo’s hips, gripped tight, and tugged back with surprisingly strength.

“Oh!” Bilbo cried, as a single hand proved insufficient to keep him balanced. Thorin paused, but Bilbo simply lay his cheek and shoulders upon the bedroll. He reached underneath to grasp himself again and ordered, “Don’t you dare stop.”

Thorin groaned, tracing a single, callused finger down Bilbo’s back – lingering over the curve of his spine in this position – and Bilbo’s cheeks heated as he pondered the wanton picture he must make. Before he could have second thoughts, however, Thorin had gripped his hips and was moving again.

With a firm tug, Bilbo was pulled back, a long, thick erection sliding between his thighs – and higher sometimes, rubbing against the stretch of sensitive skin there. Feeling it – feeling _Thorin_ – he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like, when he finally had his lover inside of him. Bilbo knew he had never been so full before, and equally, he knew it would be the most _perfect_ feeling – how could it not be?

One of Bilbo’s hands lay by his face, and he bit his knuckle in a futile effort to stifle the increasingly desperate sounds he was making. His other hand was stroking, tugging, rubbing nearly frantically at his erection until finally – _finally_ – he reached his peak, his cry of pleasure soon twining with Thorin’s own.

After both had stopped panting and caught their breaths, they tried to arrange themselves comfortably – somewhat hampered by the wet spots.

Bilbo’s nose wrinkled. “We did not think this through. There’s not enough room to sleep around it.”

Thorin, without looking away – arching what Bilbo deemed to be a _very_ taunting eyebrow – simply flipped the bedrolls over.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, feeling foolish. He huffed and lay down. “Well? Get down here.”

Thorin gave a puff of amusement and did so, tugging Bilbo close. Bilbo went happily, finding the most comfortable spot, as only a hobbit could – in this case, draped half over Thorin, his heartbeat under Bilbo’s ear – and settled with a hum of contentment, especially when fingers began to thread through his hair.

“Comfortable?”

Bilbo petted Thorin’s lovely pelted chest. “Quite.”

“I am glad.”

“Though,” Bilbo added, feeling that spark of mischief return, “I imagine I will be more comfortable still, the night you provide me a soft bed” – he pressed closer, hitching a leg over Thorin’s hip – “and quality oils” – he scratched fingers through dark chest hair, catching on a nipple – “and _time_.”

Thorin groaned. “Top. _Priority_.”

Bilbo glanced up with an impish smile. “I shall hold you to that, dearest.”

**Author's Note:**

> I did not expect, when I set out to write this, for Thorin to be such a sap. He kept being adoring and using a pet name – he calls Bilbo ‘treasure’ like ten times – while Bilbo – all the blushing aside – was mostly sass and attitude, in between getting lost in lustful dazes, and only uses a pet name – ‘dearest’ – thrice.
> 
> I also did not expect Thorin to be _smooth_. The seductive praising and dirty talk? Not planned. I envision him as more of an awkward, foot-in-mouth kinda talker. But Thorin was all ‘nah, just watch me _melt_ him’. And he _did_.
> 
> The language in general, as I wrote, kept coming out oddly old-fashioned. I’m not sure they talk that way in the movie, outside a few pretty monologues – correct me if I’m wrong, been a while since I watched – but eh, I like the mood it gives the piece.
> 
> (Am tempted to write a second chapter – specifically what happens when they finally have that soft bed, etc.)


End file.
